


The Uses of Broken Things

by Arcanista



Series: Our Own Sins [7]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: BDSM, Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, F/M, Femdom, Humiliation, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, No physical contact, Orgasm Denial, POV Third Person Limited, Present Tense, Sweet aftertaste?, Verbal Bondage, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-23
Updated: 2015-02-23
Packaged: 2018-03-14 17:58:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3420206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arcanista/pseuds/Arcanista
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Samson has been many things in his life: addict, templar, general, beggar. Now Inquisitor Lavellan declares him to merely be a broken thing. But she has a fondness for broken things, she says. And she has an uncanny gift at smoking the truth out of very little. Inquisitor not named in-text. See collection for more stories about her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Uses of Broken Things

There is no lock on the door, but this room is just as much a prison as any hole in the dungeons. Samson _knows_  that, knows that in his bones. It is still far better than he deserves. The bed is nicer than any he's known in years: a good straw pallet over a tight rope frame. Even a pillow and a woolly blanket: thin, cheap, but new and unused. Not a flea to be found anywhere. When he lifts it to his nose there is only the distant scent of camphor.

Stranger still is the desk, the stool tucked beneath it. Empty, save for a battered copy of _Hard in Hightown_  set in the far corner. He cannot fathom its presence. Just as likely they forgot to haul it out before they realized they'd need to stick him somewhere at night. The scuffed old wardrobe he can at least understand, even if it is overkill for the single change of clothes that was folded on the bottom.

There is even a window, if a small one and bare of glass. A thick curtain keeps the chill out. Room enough to stand and pace. It's practically a palace.

It's not the only thing he notices. There's nothing sharp in the room. Anything breakable would take at least some effort and definitely some noise. And the room is lit by some sort of magical lantern. He waves his hand close to it and it goes out, then back on when he repeats the motion. No fire. Not even any heat. Clever. Not necessary. But clever indeed.

He's been a walking dead man for longer than he cares to think of. If he was going to cut it short he'd have done it long ago. Not now. Just a testament to the Inquisitor's thrift, this. Along with all the rest. He doesn't even know what it will mean for him. To be _studied_. Like some sort of bug. But what that entails for him, he doesn't yet know. She'll send for him tomorrow. She needed this long to get her tools together.

Ominous thought, that. Tools. The word's vague enough to leave him wondering. If the arcanist slit him open, would lyrium ooze out? He won't die of this experimentation, that's all he's sure of. Not intentionally, anyway. Not so long as there's some sort of use left in him.

At least he's like to get regular meals here, most days. Some of them might even be hot. Who knows what he might get though. Orlesian ponces eat snails around these parts, or so he's been told. Probably better than cat, at least. Nothing stringy like cat.

The smell catches in his nostrils long before he hears the sound of footsteps. Faint at first, just something changed in the dusty air. But the lyrium's changed him enough that even without it singing in his blood he's still a little bit _more_  than he ever was without it. When the footfalls sound in the hallway, he can make out more and more of the smell. A woman's perfume, aggressive and over-ripe, covering over thick lingering sweat. He remembers that smell. In the Great Hall, in front of all the crowds that had come to see him at his lowest.

Samson stands, turns to face the door. She won't catch him unawares, at any rate. He has that much dignity left.

The door swings open. She doesn't even knock, just walks on in like she owns the place. Samson supposes she does. Her fingers linger on the door, crimson nails shining like lyrium in the light. She catches his eye and smiles. Maker, her lips are just as red, commanding his attention. Does she know it? How could she not? She didn't dress like that when she sat on her throne, looking at him like he was worth less than dirt. No, she was regal then, all rich fabrics in damn near military styles. She wasn't painted up like some Hightown tart then, that's for damn sure. No, she might as well've been a boy then, except for her damn perfume. The only other time he'd seen her before that was on the battlefield, so as far as he knew, she just looked that way.

He sees now that he was wrong. Now she wears a shirt of charcoal grey satin, tailored close and clinging to her form. Is it just the sheen of the fabric, or does he see the faint impression of nipple straining outward? No. His imagination, it must be. The shirt is buttoned to the neck and she wears a velvet choker just above that. Severe, too severe for a flimsy garment like that. Trousers are just as tight, limning the shape of her slender legs in fine plum wool, flaring out over the tops of her polished boots. Dark clothes, drawing his gaze back to the commands of her lips, her hands.

She turns just so, _leans_ , and shoves the door shut. Her shirt rides up a tiny bit, showing him a tiny flash of the skin on her hip. He swallows hard, then makes the only attempt he can to seize control of the situation. "If it isn't the whore-queen of Skyhold," he says. It's a petty, petty barb, and uncalled-for, but he has only pettiness left to him. He'd might as well take his shots where he can get them.

But she just smiles at him, lyrium-red lips curving. "Is that supposed to hurt?" she asks, head tilting. A tendril of inky hair dangles free from the tail that contains the rest, brushes against her neck. Her tongue pauses on her teeth, then she shrugs and says, "It's true, you know. Oh, not in ages now. But it's not easy for a lone elven woman to get from the Marches to Ferelden. Especially if she'd rather not go by sea." She shifts her weight, settles a hand on one hip, covering that bare spot. "Oh, but you would be _shocked_  to know how much money people will give that selfsame elf to get her to, mm, take them to task for all of humanity's crimes against the elves. Oh, and I _fucked_  more than a few of them too. I'd say it's all part of the package. But I liked that bit. And it doesn't shame me to say so."

"Why are you telling me this?" Samson asks, voice grating in his ears. He regrets the feeble insult now, so if that's her goal she's succeeded. But now he's got that _image_  in his head. He wipes his hands on his trousers, trying to blot the sweat away. It's a small mercy that he doesn't have the shakes right now.

The Inquisitor shifts, leaning casually back against the door. One hand stays on her hip, red and white against the dark. "A few reasons, actually," she says, precisely enunciating every word. "Because no one would believe you if you said anything. The Inquisitor whored herself out straight through the half the cities in the Free Marches, Nevarra, and Orlais? Just a fucking lyrium dream. I could even make you believe that, if I had to." She smiles wider. Maker, she didn't look this cruel when she was trying her damndest to kill him. Does she have to sound so fucking _sultry_  about it? But she keeps going, "Because I lost a good set of whips in the blast, and some very nice replacements in the avalanche. You _owe_  me, as far as I'm concerned. You should _see_  what the Bull and I did to this Chantry sister with them... Nn. Too easy to think all you need is one. But you should know what it is you owe me and why." She lifts her hand to her mouth, rubs her lip with her thumb. The red doesn't budge. "But most importantly, really: because you need to know that if you're going to try to hurt me, you'll need to do better than that."

"And that's why you came to see me," says Samson. He folds his arms across his chest, looking down at her. What _is_  her game? Sure as Andraste burned, it isn't to seduce him. Is it just to keep him off-balance? That's working. That's working for damn sure.

"I came to check on the lay of the land before Dagna starts work," says the Inquisitor, the sex fading from her voice. But not vanishing. No, she can't let him get off that easily, can she? "You have a right to know more about the shape of your situation. This could be, merciful, if you care for it to be."

"Merciful," repeats Samson. He rolls the word around in his head, feeling it, letting it rattle against the echoes of the song. "And why would I ever believe you think I deserve _mercy_?"

"Deserve?" says the Inquisitor. She pushes off the door and saunters toward him, hips rolling on each step. Maferath's balls, the way she worked them was reason enough to believe her story. "You don't _deserve_  anything at all." She only stops when she's a hair away from him, close enough he could swear he can feel her, but he knows he can't. "But I have a fondness for broken things."

Samson's throat siezes. Everything has gone dry as dust, and try as he might, he cannot even swallow. Maker, he can feel the heat of her body. "Is that what I am to you?" He had been a fucking _general_  less than a month ago. Now? He doesn't even know what he is. Maybe she's right.

The Inquisitor laughs, long and deep in her throat. "You've been broken for a long, long time, Samson. And if there's anything human left in you, well, Dagna will find that out, won't she?" She lifts her left hand to hover just over his cheek, the the green glare fogging his vision. Every hair on his body stands straight on end. "Speaking of Dagna. Well, let's start with the bad news first, hmmm?" She withdraws her hand from him, steps back. Is her breath coming just a little bit heavier? "Dagna needs you, mmhm, as clean as you can get. As a baseline for comparison. No alcohol. No lyrium. No going past the hall outside. Room enough to stretch your legs, but for the moment the research comes first."

"You are free to do as you will with me, Inquisitor," says Samson. It comes out as a sigh, but oh, how it makes her smile when he says those words. But a part of him coils in on itself, sounding through her words carefully. Baseline for comparison. Why would she need to go out of her way to tell him no lyrium, not even a stiff drink? Does that mean...? Surely not. Not one of these self-righteous hero types. But is that what she is? Is that really what she is? He thought so, before the Temple of Mythal. He thought so, before his trial. He thought so, before she turned that cruel red smile on him. But he won't reduce himself to asking her. To begging her. Not with the memory of his heights still _real_  inside of him.

Something about her smile changes. Subtle. What is it? Both the corners of her mouth are at the same height now. Does that make it warmer? Certainly not. "Yes," says the Inquisitor. "I am. It shan't be long before you can have the good stiff drink I'm certain you sorely need. I don't see why there's no reason you shouldn't have the run of Skyhold once Dagna has you settled into a routine. You won't make me regret _that_ , will you, Samson?"

No one's ever said his name that way before, never pressed their tongue into it like a half-erect cock, teasing it into full stiffness. Slow and soft with just that hiss to it. He will not promise her. He will not promise her. He reaches for a smirk, and finds it. "Where would I go, Inquisitor?"

"Go?" she asks, eyebrows raising sharply. She shifts, fingers rubbing beneath her chin. The corner of her mouth drops, and that moment of what might have been warmth is past. "Oh, there's nowhere you could go. No, I meant that you have no friends in Skyhold. And I've seen how people can be here over crimes years past. Over strangers' corpses. You? You've killed people that they _know_. You're _responsible_  for even more. Do I need to elaborate?" The question is not rhetorical. That galls him even more, somehow.

"No, Inquisitor," he says. He squares his shoulders, leaning back to look down at her. What does she _want_  from him? He's not imagining this, is he? "I follow your meaning. I'm not fucking stupid." Maker, how she smiles now, like a cat into the cream.

"That remains to be seen, _S_ am _s_ on," she says, dragging out his name again, giving it substance. Giving it a purpose as it falls from her tongue. He can't suppress the shiver. "But that leaves the lyrium."

"The lyrium," he echoes. The word uncoils from the back of his mind, spreads out its tendrils, blotting out everything else. But he has to be careful, so careful. If she knows how much he wants it, how much he needs it, she'll just deny it to him. Or is that where this was always leading? "What about it?"

The Inquisitor stretches out one arm, fingers coming to rest against the wall. She looks up at him through thick dark lashes, a look that gasps pinned, fluttering desperately between coquettish and calculating. "I've seen lyrium withdrawal. Terrible, isn't it? But so long as it doesn't interfere with Dagna's work, you shan't need to worry about _that_ , at least."

"Simple as that," says Samson. It can't be. It can't be. He almost steps toward her, almost grabs her by the shoulders, shakes her.

She half-turns away from him and glances over her shoulder. Her shirt rides up again, showing that tiny bit of skin there. His breath comes hotter for just a second, but her arm drops, hiding it. "Yes," says the Inquisitor, letting the word fall to the floor between them. "Cullen's going off it, do you know?"

"He would," is all Samson has to say to that. He fucking would. But that's a fucking dick-measuring contest Samson has no chance of winning. He glowers now down at the Inquisitor, her and her fucking smile. Would she cry if he slapped her? No. No, this one wouldn't cry. Has she ever cried?

Something about that answer must satisfy her, though. She tilts her head toward him, a longer acknowledgement than just a nod. A wisp of something-- then it's gone. "I do hope the two of you can tolerate being in the same room together," she says, all false innocence. "You'll need his authorization on your requisitions. And Dagna's, of course. Or mine. We'll start spaced out enough to keep the worst of the edge off."

She falls silent then. He's starting to follow this now. Leading statements, teasing, seeing what he does. He still doesn't know what _response_  she's looking for. Well, he'll hold his peace this time, see what she does. Whatever she is, she's far fucking easier on the eyes than Corypheus ever was, so staring her down is not going to be the problem here.

Her smile never wavers for so much as a second, even as the silence stretches out between them. He dares to look right into her eyes and regrets it. Looking at him like he's a brightly-coloured bug, or a piece of meat... or a broken thing. When she speaks it's less that he's won and more that she's taken what she needed. "If you turn out to be worth the cost in materials, we might do a little better for you than that."

If. Might. She dangles things in front of his nose to see what he will grab for. That's what she's doing. Is he supposed to be a fucking cat now? Andraste's tits, just tell him what he needs to do to get it. Tell him. Before he even realizes he's moved, he's stepped toward her.

The Inquisitor's index finger raises, stopping him dead in his tracks. "Ahh," she says, the sound coming from deep in her throat, a maddening purr.

And he knows he's lost to her. Samson's shoulders slump forward, and he lets out a breath. "Well, you have what you came for. Go on, then."

She lowers her hand, resting it on her hip once more. The smile slowly drifts away from her lips, only a shadow remaining there. Her tongue darts out, dabs at them as if trying to steal the red away. "Do you think I ever want just one thing?" She tosses her head, shoulders rolling with the motion. "Tell me, Samson," she says, and the way she tongue-fucks his name makes him quiver like a maid. "When was the last time you had a woman?" Then, like a genuine afterthought, question that as he might, "Or a man, I suppose. Cullen never did mention. How thoughtless of him."

Maker, she's not. She can't be. But the way she's been acting this whole time? Maferath's ice-blue balls, he doesn't know. He doesn't fucking know. "Not as long as you'd think," he rasps. Not that he can tell a damn thing about what she thinks. Mother of all fucks, Corypheus was better than this. At least he knew what Corypheus wanted of him. Samson looks away from her mouth, slowly takes in her body, the way she's standing. No, not standing, posing. Shoulders back and straight, tits pushed forward. Hand squeezing her hip, fingers leaving impressions in her shirt. She _can't_  be.

"No?" she says. Samson wrenches his attention back up to her face. Her head tilts, and her teeth slide over her lower lip. She waves her left hand toward him in a single fluid gesture, fingers splayed wide. "Let's see, then. You've been a very _b_ usy _b_ oy." Maker, she must be close to half his age, but when she calls him that, says it that way, he can't even argue. Her voice grows thoughtful, smoky, coming half from the back of her throat, half from deep in her chest. "So, not a paid transaction. You had too much work to do; you'd have had to go too far out of your way for that. And _nobody_  in the entire world cares for you." The last darts at him, the words a velvet whip that makes his breath catch. The Inquisitor's hand rises, one finger tapping at her cheek. "So it was something casual. But you _cared_  about your position. Not a subordinate then. One of the Venatori. I'm going to say a woman. You're flexible, but you prefer women if you get the option. You usually don't. Tell me I'm right so far, then I'll tell you how you fucked her."

How? His breath catches as everything she laid out slides into place. Corypheus had been something else entirely. What the fuck is she? Just some fucking knife-ear; a mage, yes, but she hadn't done a damn thing magical. Her spymaster, maybe? But that doesn't make any sense, not for something like this. He swallows slowly, says, "You're right. So far." There is no way she'll have this.

Is that a _grin_  she flashes him? No. No, it's not. It can't be. But her face goes thoughtful again, and she makes a sweeping gesture in the air. Her left hand bounces up and down, like she's counting something. She gets to three, then says, "She was... hmm, not a mage. Shem mages keep to their own social groups as a rule, and old habits die hard. And you didn't want your men trying to take advantage. Archer. And you would have done it... ah. Lower level. Think I saw a nook down there. Not private, but out of the way. It would have been... early afternoon. After lunch, when everyone's cleared out. Risky, though. Easy to get caught. But that doesn't bother you, and it got her wet. You liked to think it was for you." She pauses, then adds, "It could have been. There's only one thing more arousing than power, after all. Brunette. Bad teeth. Up against the wall. Now, this was the easy part."

"Maker's balls," he says before he feels his lips move.

She fucking giggles, that's the only word for it, a bubble of a laugh. Her tongue workes over her teeth when her mouth is open, and she keeps going. Her eyes are locked on his face, focused tight on him. "Whatever duties she had that day, they were keeping her around that compound you had there. But there was time enough. You shoved her up against the wall, and you shoved your hand right down her pants. Her cunt was sopping wet, and you shoved your finger right up in her. You finger-fucked her right up until she started breathing hard on your neck, hmm, just like this."

The Inquisitor steps right up to him, near enough for every hair on his body to stand on end, straining to close the gap between them. She lifts up onto her toes, tilts her head, and _breathes_  on his neck, hard and fast and breathy and _hot_  and no, no, she's wrong, it wasn't half as good as this, and he starts to raise his hands, reach for her, when she takes three steps back, swiftly. "I never said you could touch me, Samson," she whispers, chest still heaving from those breaths. "With those filthy fucking hands of yours? I know where they've been. You didn't work her clit enough, but she didn't complain. Maybe didn't even mind. But you couldn't wait anymore, and you started getting her pants down around her knees. You were already hard by the time she got her hand on it, and she couldn't wait to get your cock out. You got your fingers out of her, and then, you, hmm..."

She's just guessing now, she has to be. But she's a fucking good guesser. She _must_  be reading something off of him for direction, but what is he giving her? And how does he _keep_  giving it to her, keep her from stopping? Her cheeks are flushed beneath the powder. Her breath hasn't entirely calmed. Oh, she's fucking with him, but it's not entirely one-sided, is it? He smiles, he fucking smiles like he hasn't before that shit at the Well. "Go on then." Might as well do his best to not make it _easy_  for her.

She tosses her head, hand going back on her hip. The front of her hip right now, with one red fingernail pointing inward. "Hand on the wall. Right by her ear. Your fingers were cold and wet but you didn't care. No, she put her knee up on your hip and you thrust in to the fucking hilt. You didn't wait, you just started fucking. She bit her lip to keep quiet, but she was so _fucking_  wet by then, you could hear it every _single_  time you thrust, you know, that wet fucking sound, it's like an, mm, _slurch_. Little sounds coming out her nose." The Inquisitor pauses, swallows visibly, but doesn't demonstrate this time, more's the fucking pity. Her hand rises once more, and she points at him. "It's over quickly. Too quickly. It's not..." more obviously than she did before, she looks over his face, briefly frowns in thought. She says instead, "It's better than it should be. All that lyrium in you? You've never fucked like this in your life. She's never been fucked like this in her life. For one single second, not even that long, you felt like a _god_. When you came in her, for that miniscule moment, you _understood_  why Corypheus does what he does. And then it was _gone_. You did your pants back up, she pulled hers up, and she didn't even look back at you when she left. Probably the best sex in your life. Well? How close was that, Samson?"

Samson tries to swallow. Tries and fails. "Closer than it had any right to be," he says. Is it just her word that keeps him from closing the space between them? It feels like chains around his chest. "How? What _are_ you?" He stays rooted to the ground, his own breath hotter than he's felt it in a long time.

The Inquisitor steps nearer, raises her right hand. Her fingers hover over his cheek, stroking, but never touching. He does not move his head, he cannot. She smiles at him again, and there's something sweet to it now. Like she's _proud_  of him. She murmurs, "And give you all my secrets? I drank from the Well of Sorrows. I am no less than the living hand of a goddess. What might you have become? Tell me. _Samson_. Do you want me?" Her voice sings in his ears, echoing through all the empty spaces in his head.

"Yes," he says, and her eyes blink as she catches his breath in her face. She winces, too, but there's not much he can do about his breath right now. Should he kiss her? That's what _pretty_  women like her want, isn't it? But even if they've spent all this time tying him into knots? Her fingers are still there, holding him back, somehow.

"I know," she tells him, and steps away. She looks him up and down, dragging her gaze over him from tip to toe. "You're fucking disgusting," she says, so sweetly that he's leaning faintly toward her before the words actually reach him. But if that's how she sounds when he disgusts her, then, Maker, let him disgust her. She closes her eyes, tongues her lips until they're wet and shiny. Her lips start moving before she exhales one word: "No." And the breath she lets out after is-- shit, like she's getting fingered by Andraste herself.

Samson wonders when the last time she said that word was. She said it to herself, and not to him. But he thinks he knows what he wants from her now. What she wants to hear. It's like a knot she's worked loose, and he lays it down before her. He grates, "Because _I am disgusting._ " That's how she wants him to say it. The words make his spine tingle, his fingers twitch at his sides. It feels too good to say it out loud, and yet--

She opens her eyes, and her smile is like all the praise he's never gotten. "I bet you fucking come red lyrium," she says, letting the words coil around him. The notion is ridiculous. Isn't it? "I'd like to see you lick up every drop from the floor. But we couldn't have an outbreak here. I think Dagna should probably look into that. You'd better not even _touch_  your cock until we're sure. You'll tell me if you disobey. Won't you. Samson." Oh, she isn't even asking now. And what a cruel fucking thing to tell him, after all this, after she's gotten him fucking _aching_.

"Yes. Inquisitor." The last is what evokes that sweet fucking smile, the one that feels like sunshine on his skin. The least she could fucking do is cool off after telling him that, the cruel little thing. But he already knows she won't. And he knows he'll fucking obey her.

Her head tilts toward him, and she says, "Now I have what I came for. I have places to be. But we'll... talk, like this, again, Samson." She still drags out his name like she's sucking on it, then turns her back to him. When she walks to the door, her ass rolls with the motion, straining against her pants.

"Wait," he says, not taking his eyes off of her. She stops short, one hand on the door-handle. She doesn't turn around, but she lifts her head, long tail bouncing between her shoulder-blades. He asks her, "What did you come for? What did you decide?"

She opens the door, head tilting toward her right shoulder. And the Inquisitor says something to him nobody's ever said before to him, not the fucking Templar Order, not even Corypheus, who trusted him with the commands he never could have had. She says three words, and walks out the door, not waiting for his response, just shutting it behind her. She leaves him like that, and all Samson can do is sit heavily on the edge of his bed and stare into his hands. He doesn't know what to do with it. He doesn't know what made her decide it. He doesn't know.

"You're worth saving."


End file.
